Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

After Liadin’s marriage, Fidelma had met her friend only once, and she was replete with happiness for she had, in spite of expectations, fallen in love with her husband. Fidelma had been astonished at her friend’s transformation. Liadin and Scoriath’s joining, so far as Fidelma could assess from her friend’s enthusiasm, was that of a vine to a tree. Fidelma rejoiced in her friend’s happiness and in the subsequent birth of her son. Then their paths separated again.

The child must be three years old now, Fidelma reflected, guiding her mount toward the fortress of the Uí Dróna. What could ail Liadin to make her send such a message?

Fidelma had observed that the man had been watching her approach for an hour, ever since she had rounded the shoulder of the hill and ridden carefully down into the valley toward the dark, brooding walls of the fortress. He lounged by the gate of the rath with folded arms and made no attempt to change his position as she approached and halted her mount.

“What do you seek here?” he demanded gruffly.

Fidelma gazed down at him with irritation.

“Is this rath of the Uí Dróna?” she demanded.

The man motioned assertively with his head.

“Then I demand entrance.”

“On what business?”

“On my own business.” Her voice was soft but dangerous.

“I am Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna. My business is to know your business here,” was the implacable response. A Tanist was the heir-elect of a chieftain.

Fidelma was unperturbed. “I am come to see Liadin. I am Fidelma of Kildare.”

Fidelma was aware of a momentary change of expression on the man’s face. She had a curious feeling that it was a look of relief, but it was gone before she was sure. The Tanist shifted his weight upright.

“I regret, Sister, that Liadin is being heard before the Brehon Rathend even as we speak.”

Sister Fidelma’s features re-formed into an expression of surprise.

“Being heard? Do you mean that she pleads a case in law before the Brehon?”

The Tanist hesitated. “In a way. She pleads her innocence.”

“Innocence? Of what is she accused?”

“Liadin is accused of the murder of her husband, Scoriath of the Fir Morc, and of her own son.”

The Brehon Rathend was tall and thin, with pale, bloodless-looking skin. The learned judge had hooded dark eyes with shadowy pouches under them which seemed to suggest that he was a man unused to sleep. The lines of his face certainly denoted that he was a man who had little sense of humor. His entire expression was one of controlled irritation. The whole measured up to an expression of ill-health and ill-humor.

“By what authority do you interrupt this trial, Sister?” he demanded querulously as he came into the chamber where Fidelma had been conducted. Fidelma told him of her qualification as a dálaigh.

“Is Liadin of the Uí Dróna represented by an advocate?” she demanded.

“No,” he replied. “She refuses to plead.”

“Then I am here to plead her case for her. I would request a postponement of the hearing for twenty-four hours that I may consult with Liadin.”

Rathend grimaced diffidently.

“This will be difficult. Besides, how do you know she will accept your advocacy?”

Fidelma glared hard at the Brehon. Rathend tried to return her gaze but eventually dropped his eyes uncomfortably.

“Even if she accepts your advocacy, everyone has already gathered to hear the opening arguments,” he explained lamely.

“The purpose of the hearing is for justice to be done, not for the convenience of an audience. The opening of the hearing can be delayed under law.”

A slight color tinged the sallow cheeks of the thin Brehon. He was about to reply when the door of the room burst open abruptly and a young woman entered. Fidelma quickly appraised her and had to admit that she was attractive in spite of a prominent aquiline nose, sallow skin and dark hair which made her rather foreign in appearance. Her dark eyes flashed vivaciously. That she was a woman of rank was obvious.

“What does; this delay mean, Rathend?” The dark eyes fell on Fidelma and registered suspicion. “Who is this?”

“Sister Fidelma is an advocate come to plead Liadin’s case,” Rathend said obsequiously.

A flush of annoyance tinged the woman’s cheeks.

“Then you are late in coming here, Sister.”

Fidelma let her gaze move almost languidly over the shorter woman’s haughty features.

“And you are …?” she asked softly, reminding Rathend of his breach of etiquette and causing the woman’s flush of annoyance to intensify.

“This is Irnan; chieftainess of the Uí Dróna,” Rathend supplied quickly. “You stand in her ráth.”

Fidelma let a smile deepen the corners of her mouth and she inclined her head in acknowledgement of the woman’s rank rather than in deference.

“Whether I am late or early, Irnan of the Uí Dróna, the point is that I am here and justice must be served.” A dálaigh of Fidelma’s rank of Anruth could speak on equal terms with a provincial king and could even sit in the presence of the High King himself, though only at the latter’s invitation. Fidelma turned back to Rathend. “I shall need to consult with Liadin to arrange her defense. I need twenty-four hours’ delay before the opening arguments.”

“Defense?” Was there a bitter humor in Irnan’s interruption. “What defense can there be for this woman?”

Fidelma barely glanced at her.

“I shall be able to inform the court of my defense once I have had access to Liadin.”

“The case is clear,” Irnan snapped. “Liadin killed her husband and her son.”

“For what reason?” demanded Fidelma.

“It was an arranged marriage. Perhaps Liadin hated Scoriath?” the chieftainess sniffed. “Who knows?”

“A weak reason when she could have sought the redress of law. And why kill the child? What mother would kill her own child? Why, indeed kill after three and a half years of marriage if, as you say, it was in pique at an arranged marriage?”

Irnan’s eyes flashed with uncontrolled anger. Her tone told Fidelma that here was a woman used to being firmly in control of a situation and obeyed without question. Opposition was something that Iman was clearly unused to.

“I am not on trial here, Sister. I cannot answer your questions.”

“Someone will have to answer them,” replied Fidelma calmly. She turned to the Brehon again. “To that end, will you grant the postponement?”

Rathend seemed to glance at Irnan before responding. Fidelma saw, from the corner of her eye, the chieftainess shrug. Rathend sighed and inclined his head in affirmative.

“Very well, Sister. You have twenty-four hours before the court sits to hear the charges. Be warned that the charge is that of fingal, kin-slaying, and is so grave in this instance that we are not talking of compensation in terms of an eric fine. If Liadin is judged guilty, so heinous is this crime that she will be cast adrift on the high seas in an open boat without oars, sail, food or water. And if she survives, if she is cast ashore by the will of God, on whosoever’s shore she lands, that person has the right of life and death over her. That is the judgment prescribed by law.”

Sister Fidelma knew well the penalty for extreme cases of murder.

“Only if she is found guilty,” she added softly.

Irnan let out a sharp bray of laughter.

“There is little doubt of that.”

She turned and swept from the room, leaving Rathend gazing in unhappy confusion after her.

The two women broke apart from their embrace. Fidelma’s eyes were troubled as she gazed at the face of her friend. Liadin was shorter than Fidelma, with a shock of chestnut hair, pale skin and dark brown eyes that seemed almost black from a distance. Her face was strained, the flesh under the eyes was dark with worry, the skin almost bloodless and etched with lines.